


I- I thought it was just a dream...

by governmentgoldfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, drug mention, ghost fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 18:25:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12371463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/governmentgoldfish/pseuds/governmentgoldfish
Summary: He doesn't know he's dead.





	I- I thought it was just a dream...

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a thing earlier this year. It's saved on my computer as 'probably pain ft ghost' and I've not written anything more yet. Might do, who knows.

It was quick and very nearly painless.

One minute he was running, hot on Sherlock's heels as they chased after what they assumed to be an unarmed suspect. Next minute the suspect had fired what was probably meant to be a warning shot, and Greg had crumpled to the floor. He was already gone by the time Sherlock had dashed to his side and shouted his name.

"No, no, no-- Lestrade, no, no, wake up-- Lestrade-- GREG-!"

The suspect had already made a run for it by the time backup had arrived, greeted by the sight of one Sherlock Holmes, cradling the limp form of DI Gregory Lestrade in his arms, begging for him to come back.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg woke with a start, a gasp of breath leaving him as he stared up at the ceiling, having to take a moment to calm down from the panicked high of his nightmare. It’d been awhile since he had one that bad.

Dragging himself out of bed - he never got back to sleep after a nightmare, and it wasn't too early - he trudged through his usual morning routine, mentally making a plan for the day-- after all,  it was his day off. Unless he got called in on a case, he had the day to himself. It didn't take long for him to decide that visiting Baker Street was certainly on the agenda, given that he'd not seen sherlock in a good week, thanks to - mostly - paperwork.

One of two things usually happened when he knocked on the door to 221; Either Mrs Hudson opened the door and greeted him, offering him a cup of tea before ushering him off upstairs, or the door would remain closed for some reason or another, and he'd have to dig out his key and let himself in. Today was the latter, apparently. He entered the building, idly calling a hello to Mrs Hudson, before he began climbing up the stairs to 221b.

"Got a case then, Sherlock?" He asked conversationally as he entered, hands in his pockets as he took a peek at the wall of photos and information and clues. Usually such a comment would earn him an idle hum, or a scoff, or simply no reaction whatsoever. The response he got this time was not the one he expected.

Sherlock, who had been working himself into a pacing frenzy, froze on the spot. He spun on his heel and suddenly Greg wished he'd made an excuse to come see him earlier. Christ, he looked /awful/. Probably hadn't slept in a week, nor eaten in as long. Didn't even look like he'd shaved in that time, and he was probably living off a diet of Mrs Hudsons tea and coffee. Wide eyed, Sherlock stared.

"Sherlock?" Greg blinked, glanced down at this form and then back up at the detective, "What? Have I got something on my face?"

When no response came he stepped forward, feeling a spike of worry as he looked at his friend. 

"What's wrong? Sher', not being funny but--"

"You can't be here."

Greg stopped, quirking a brow at him and blinking. "I, uh... I let myself in. No one answered the door, so--... It's my day off, I just thought I'd--"

"Get out." Sherlock’s voice was almost  _ shaking _ , and Greg had to take a moment to formulate even half a response to that.

"I'm- Sorry?"

"GET OUT!"

Quite frankly, Greg would have felt insulted if he hadn't been so concerned by the angered, almost  _ scared _ look on Sherlock's face. Taking a breath, he held up his hands in a surrendering gesture and took a step back.

"Alright. Okay." Another step. "Okay, Sunshine, I'll leave you to it." He hesitated before turning, taking a long look at Sherlock and wondering what the hell was up with him. "I'll come back later.”

 

Text to: John Watson  
                   Hey mate, any clue what this case is Sherlock's working on? He looks like hell.  
                  /message not sent/

 

Greg frowned down at his screen, pressing the 'resend' button four times before giving up and opting to call John instead, if his texts weren't going to go through. Three rings and it went to voicemail.

"Okay... uh- John, mate, s'Greg, just wondering-- Look, I went to go check on Sherlock and he looks a right fucking state. Whatever case he's working on is doing him no good. He  _ yelled _ at me to get out the flat. And you  **know** that usually he just ignores me if he doesn’t want me there. Just do me a favour; shoot him a text, yeah? Thanks."

He hung up, slipping his phone in his pocket as he turned to look up at the windows to 221b. Sherlock stared down at him through the glass, before disappearing out of sight. Greg’s brow furrowed as he turned away and began to walk.

Across town, John Watson received a voicemail containing nothing but static.

 

* * *

 

Keeping to his word, Greg left Sherlock to it until later that day, choosing to spend the time between the visits at home, relaxing. It was his day off, after all. He didn’t bother knocking, this time, when he got to Baker Street; he simply let himself in and made his way up the stairs.

“No, no.” As soon as Sherlock saw him he was shaking his head. “Get out.”

Greg huffed out a breath and stepped into the room. “I said I’d be back later, Sherlock. It’s later.”

“Go  _ away _ .”

“ **No** , Sherlock, this is ridiculous, I know whatever case you’re on is hard but  _ bloody hell _ \--”

“You can’t  _ be _ here-!”

“What the hell d’you mean I can’t  _ be  _ here? Why not?!”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE DEAD!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Greg found himself letting out a loud huff of confused laughter. 

“No I’m  **not** . I mean, I’m pretty bloody sure I’d know if I was  _ dead,  _ Sherlock. Christ, I--” He paused as a thought occurred to him, and after a moment of peering at Sherlock’s pupils he marched forward, grabbing for the consultants arm and shoving his sleeve up to look at the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock actually  _ flinched  _ when he touched him, so he quickly let go; letting Sherlock pull his hand back towards him and watching him cradle it like he’d been burnt.

“What have you taken, Sherlock?”

“Get out.”

“No.  _ No _ , tell me what you’ve taken so I can bloody well  **help** you!”

For a moment Sherlock honestly looked as if he were about to cry.

“Sherlock…” The word was stolen from his lips and he turned to see Mrs Hudson in the doorway, looking at the detective worriedly.


End file.
